


The Answer

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: And They Were Roommates [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Good Parent Martin Whitly, Good Person Martin Whitly, Hallucinations, Identity Issues, Manipulation, Martin Whitly Is Innocent, Martin Whitly Is Not The Surgeon, Martin Whitly Was Framed, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Nicholas Endicott Can Die, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28025055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: Sometimes he's just tired. He's so, so tired. He just wants to go home to his family. He doesn't understand why he can't go home. He doesn't understand why he can't see Jessica anymore. Why he hasn't seen Ainsley since she was five years old. Why Malcolm just… despises him.
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Martin Whitly, Jessica Whitly/Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Mr. David | Martin Whitly's Guard & Martin Whitly
Series: And They Were Roommates [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147352
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	The Answer

**Author's Note:**

> A different take on Martin Whitly...

Sometimes, Martin thinks, none of it makes any sense.

It's rare, and it's fleeting, and it's a thought that his conditioned mind can't really focus on for more than thirty seconds at a time. But it does come, and when it comes, he struggles with it. The murders. The people. Jessica, Malcolm, Ainsley. Sometimes he remembers flashing lights. A cup of tea in his hands. A police officer at his door. Other times he remembers Watkins. He remembers the station wagon. He remembers the girl… Sophie. He remembers _Endicott_. And sometimes he remembers blood on his hands. A scalpel pinched between his fingers. But those memories always feel wrong, tainted and scattered and colored like fantasies, daydreams, _nightmares_. And then sometimes… all he remembers… is flower petals… and roses…

And sipping wine in the afternoon, curled up next to the fireplace with Jessica in his lap, whispering soft nothings into her ear while the fire crackles and flickers, illuminating their sleeping children's faces. Sometimes all he remembers is holding Ainsley in her bed, reading the Tale of Peter Rabbit and listening to her giggle every time he does a funny voice. Singing her lullabies, humming and rocking her to sleep in his arms. Sometimes all he remembers is Malcolm, laughing as Martin holds him up high over his head, calling him _superhero_ and saying _you can fly, my boy, you're flying_ and then hugging him close to his chest, kissing his forehead and murmuring _you're a real hero, you know. Better than Superman. My son, Malcolm Whitly…_

And Malcolm would laugh as Martin plants a kiss on his nose, _well you're my superhero, Dad._

Martin will _ache._ For hours, he will _ache_ , deep in his chest. Sometimes he doesn't even get out of bed, no matter how many times Mr. David calls out to him. He just lays there. He doesn't cry - he doesn't think he has the ability to cry anymore - but he feels like he will. Like he wants to.

He feels remorse… and regret… he drives himself crazy sometimes just sitting there. Sometimes Mr. David finds him huddled in a corner with his arms over his head, mumbling to himself. When the guard gently tries to coax him out, he'll hear himself speaking words he doesn't really mean to say, thinking things he doesn't mean to think. Once, he even grabs the man by the arms when he's helping him back up onto his bed, staring at him with a crazed, pained look in his eyes and insisting, "I didn't do it. I didn't do it. I wouldn't hurt my family like that. I wouldn't ruin us. We were _perfect._ " Whatever happens after that, he can't say for sure.

His psychiatrist calls it 'temporary psychosis' and prescribes him a new kind of medicine to take with his meals, to help him, to 'put his mind at ease'. It's a bit maddening. But he takes them.

Sometimes he's just tired. He's so, so tired. He just wants to go home to his family. He doesn't understand why he can't go home. He doesn't understand why he can't see Jessica anymore. Why he hasn't seen Ainsley since she was five years old. Why Malcolm just… _despises_ him. He tries so hard to understand; he reviews his own cases, his own murders. Endicott brought him copies of each file and he reads them all, trying to _understand._ Logically, he thinks he gets it. He's a murderer, a serial killer, the _Surgeon._ He's killed people. Hurt people. He's a monster. But emotionally, it hurts. It all feels like one big nightmare, one he's afraid he'll never wake up from.

Sometimes he thinks he wakes up with Jessica in his arms. Other times he thinks he hears Malcolm and Ainsley, kids again, laughing and yelling as they play about. Sometimes… sometimes he deludes himself into thinking he'll wake up. That none of this is real. God help him, it doesn't feel real. His therapist at the facility explains that it's normal for him to feel this way, that he needs to embrace that feeling, that it stems from guilt and remorse and it's a good sign. Martin screams after each session, locked away in his cell, howling a kind of grief and pain and confusion nobody else will ever know. _Sometimes he wonders, deep down in a part of his mind he doesn't have full access to, why nobody will listen to him. He just wants someone to listen to him._ But everyone is fake. Nobody listens, Martin realizes, because they're not _real_.

This can't be real. _It can't be real._

They were perfect. They'd been so perfect. What did he do? Why did he ruin it?

He doesn't have an answer. He never has an answer.

He only knows one thing; he wants his family back.

But they hate him.

"Why do you hate me?" He murmurs into the darkness at night, curled up on his side with his face pressed halfway into the pillow. Malcolm, just a boy - just a little boy - stares back at him. He doesn't answer. Maybe because he's not real. Or because _Martin_ doesn't know the answer.

Then, finally, Malcolm responds. "Because you're a predatory psychopath," he replies monotonously, his gaze never leaving Martin's. He doesn't blink. "Because you're a monster."

"Oh," Martin whispers. It's all he can say.

He always forgets.

He's a monster.

" _Now, Martin, I know this may be difficult for you to understand…"_

He's a predatory psychopath.

"… _but this is for your own good. For your family's own good…"_

He's a cold-blooded serial killer.

"… _so as long as you stay here… stay quiet… stay_ _ **compliant**_ … _there's no harm done."_

He's Martin Whitly.

" _And Martin?"_

He's the Surgeon.

" _Don't try to remember."_

"It's better if you don't," Malcolm tells him, Endicott's voice merging with his son's, and Martin squeezes his eyes shut against the flare of pain that flushes straight through his skull. When he forces them open again, his son is gone, and Martin is once again left alone in his empty cell. He stares into the darkness for a moment, curling his hand underneath the pillow, before slowly rolling onto his back. His chest hurts, throat tightening, eyes stinging with tears that don't rise.

Sometimes, Martin thinks, _it doesn't make any sense._

In those fantasies, those nightmare-ish daydreams, he holds a scalpel dripping with blood. Ahead of him stands a woman, dark brown hair covering her face, blood dripping from her neck.

In the real world, Martin _aches._ He wants to help her. He doesn't know if he can.

In a kinder world, maybe he'd be able to. In a kinder, softer world, where it makes sense again, Martin has his family. And he has his job. And he still has a scalpel, dripping with blood. The only difference is he stands at an OR table, and it feels right, better, because he's helping.

In a kinder world, he is not the Surgeon.

This is a fantasy, painted brighter than the nightmare he lives in. There are no tainted memories.

 _Why did you kill all those people?_ His son had asked him once, scared and small and afraid. Martin had stared back at him from the other side of the bars, struck by the question, and struck by the way his brain froze in response to it. His boy. His boy deserved an answer to that question. His boy deserved to know why Martin had done all the horrible things he had done. Why he had destroyed everything. Destroyed their family. Destroyed those people. Destroyed…

 _I'm not sure I know the answer,_ he had replied, uncertain. _If there even is one._

He knows he doesn't know the answer.

Perhaps, Martin thinks, it's better if he doesn't.


End file.
